Plasma Frequency Magazine: Issue 12 (8 page)

"...
I mean, oh my
God,
I might have to buy that one back!" one of the girls was saying, her voice too loud in the near-empty room. The other barked out a forced laugh, her eyes tracking Brian as he came through the door. He gave her a nod, wondering why she looked familiar...

Of course
. Her hair was dyed red, and she was wearing more makeup, but it was the girl who'd left the bar with Danielle before.

Her eyes had already snapped away from Brian; she was now staring into her highball glass, answering her friend in monosyllables. The other girl was droning away, not noticing that the redhead was paying more attention to the drink than the conversation.

Brian fumbled through possible ways to approach a pair of girls in a seedy club without looking like a pervert, then decided it was impossible. No guts, no glory. He stepped forward. "Excuse me..."

The redhead hunched lower in her seat and stared at the table. The other girl, a skinny blonde with a pixie cut, twisted around to face him. "Yeah?"

"I'm, um...I'm looking for a woman." He stopped himself from saying "my wife." If these girls knew what Danielle was up to, they might also try to cover for her. "Danielle Shipley. She—"

"What for?" the blonde asked.

Brian floundered. "I—I was supposed to meet her here—"

"Are you, like, a cop?"

"A—no. Why does that matter?"

"Vice?"

"No! I'm not a cop!" A frantic voice started yammering in the back of his head:
what is she doing, what is she doing, oh God...

"They don't have to tell you when you ask." The redhead's voice was dull. "That's an urban legend."

"Yeah, but I don't think they get all nervy, either. They're professionals." The blonde gave him a sympathetic smile. "First time?"

Brian had no idea what she was talking about, but he knew what answer would lead him to Danielle. "Yeah. That obvious?"

"Uh-huh. Don't worry, it gets easier. Allie was scared stiff the first time I brought her." She nodded toward the redhead, who ran her fingers along the rim of her glass and said nothing.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure."
Stripping. Danielle's a stripper. This isn't a dance club, it's a strip club.

"So are you buying or selling?" the blonde asked.

"Buying?" Brian's voice sounded faint in his ears. The word "prostitution" rose in the back of his head, and he forced it away.

"Sure. Did Danielle tell you where to go?" When he shook his head, the blonde frowned. "I'm not sure where she is right now...

"I saw her." Allie's voice was flat.
"C'mon." She pushed out of her chair and walked through a back door, not looking to see whether Brian was following her. Brian had to dive through the door in order to keep it from closing between them.

She led him down a flight of concrete stairs, pausing in front of a fire door. "Danielle's nice."

"I—what?"

Allie shrugged. "We don't talk much. A little. But she's nice." She pushed the door open.
Brian expected dim lighting and dancing poles, and was surprised to see a well-lit, carpeted hallway lined with numbered doors. It looked more like a motel or dormitory than anything else.

"
You should wait for her in the office, I guess," Allie said. She started to turn into the first door to their left, but Brian didn't follow. He could hear sounds coming from down the hall. A woman was moaning, another screaming. It
did
sound like a brothel. Danielle...

Allie half-opened the door, closed it, and turned back to Brian with a little shrug. "Still working. Wait in—"
             

Brian pushed past her and stalked down the hall, listening for Danielle's voice.

"Um, mister?"

He ignored her. He
could hear voices behind most of the doors, crying out or talking in husky tones, but none of them sounded like Danielle.

“
Um...look, if you do any weird shit, I didn't bring you here, OK?" Dimly, he heard the fire door slam. It didn't matter. He kept moving. Behind one door, three people were talking in voices too low for him to make out; he grabbed the knob only to find it locked, and as he jiggled it, the voices rose in surprise.

"Hey, what
—"

"Dude, we're not done yet!"

"Wrong door!"             

They were all men. Brian released the knob and kept moving. A woman laughed, deep and throaty, behind one door. A
whip cracked behind another. Brian's ears were burning. Just two doors left; was she in some orgy behind one of them, had he missed her?

And then he skidded to an abrupt halt as he heard a voice from the last door on the right.

"—told me last time it'd be double if I did that."

Danielle.
It was Danielle.

"Did I? Well, I suppose you earned extra
—you took it like a pro. Lie back."             

Brian wrenched the doorknob so hard he thought he would tear it loose. He was expecting it to be locked, and nearly fell over when it opened under his hand. He stumbled, caught himself, and straightened.

Danielle lay on something that looked like an operating table, wearing a filmy black corset and nothing else. A familiar-looking device, some kind of computer terminal, sat just behind her head. A balding man in slacks and a polo shirt leaned over her, his hands at her temples, and another man in his late twenties sat in a chair in the corner, flipping through a magazine.

The balding man turned as Brian came in. "Sit down and wait your turn," he said. Danielle's eyes were closed, and a probe was affixed to her left temple. The man held another probe at her right.

"Dani," Brian said.

Danielle's eyes flew open, and she sat
up. The probe ripped free from her left temple, and she flinched.
"
Brian?
What are you—"

"What the hell is going on?"

"I—I'm getting—I mean..." She twisted her hands in her lap. "We needed money."

"And if you want to get it, you need to sell the goods," the balding man said irritably. "Lie
back.
Do you want brain damage?"

"Mr. Harris, can you get Nate first? I need
—I need to talk to—" Danielle's knuckles were white.

"Fine. But if you go out in the hall, don't talk too loudly. No one wants to buy memories with you two shouting in the background."

Danielle rose from the table, grimacing. The younger man rose and headed for the table, giving her arm a squeeze as she passed.

A dull red
lump of rage tightened Brian's throat. "Don't touch her."

The young man started, then snorted a laugh. "It's a little late for that, buddy
—"

Brian didn't realize he'd raised his fist until Danielle grabbed it. "Brian, don't." Her voice was dull. She bent and scooped something from the corner
—her clothes, Brian saw—then stepped past him into the hall.

He closed the door and turned toward her. She was staring at the floor, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "Let's get out of here. Come on."

"No." She shook her head, eyes locked on his feet. "I can't leave yet. I can't."

"Danielle, it's over. It's done. Whatever you were doing here
—"

"No. It's not over." She
raised her eyes, jaw clenched. "I'm not leaving until he takes my memory."

"Of what? Dani, what are you doing?
" Even as he asked, he realized he didn't want to know. He never wanted her to answer him. Never.

But after hesitating a moment, she sighed and leaned against a wall, her eyes fixing on the ceiling. "It's...
it's like porn, I guess. People who need money, we come here and we...we do...things...and Harris sells the memories. But the money's good, I can buy back your senior year after—"

"You do things." Brian's voice sounded faint in his ears. "What things?"

"I don't know. I honestly don't. I mean, I know I fake it because I only get acting fees from appearing in the guys' memories and not royalties from sales on my own, but that's it. Some of the sellers, the men especially, they like to buy back copies of the memories so they know, but not me. I—it's hard enough having the hints. Seeing what I'm wearing when he takes the probes out. Remembering who was in the room when I walked in, and talking through a basic script. Feeling the sore spots..."

"Sore spots." Brian could feel his hands shaking
.

Danielle finally
met his gaze. She reached out and touched his face. "Hey. It's OK. It's not—it's not so bad, really. I can't remember it, so it didn't happen, you know?"

It didn't happen. It didn't happen. We can't remember meeting, so it didn't happen.
"Dani...God, Dani, you didn't have to do this. You—"

"I did." She straightened to face him full on. "I'm the reason we're in this mess, Brian, you've made that plenty clear
—"

"I didn't
—"

“
—and there's no way we were going to get out of it, not with your salary and me selling three or four pieces a year. We'd never make enough. We'd never be able to get your transcripts unlocked, we'd never have a house or kids or any of it, we'd never remember how we met or even get any of the stuff we wrote down about it, and you expected me to sit around painting trees?"

"You could have talked to me. We could have figured something out."

"We could have yelled at each other, you mean." Her eyes darted away from his face again. "It doesn't matter anymore. Let me just sell this last memory and we'll finally be above water, and we can remember. That's what counts, right?"

He wanted to say no, that what mattered was who they were now. He wanted to say yes, that maybe if he
'd remembered something crucial about her he would have known this was coming. He wanted to say that he'd never be above water, not now. But he didn't know which he wanted to say more, so he said nothing.

After a moment, she said,
"I'll meet you at home, OK? Go ahead and make an appointment with the loan officers." She hesitated, then kissed his cheek. "I love you."

"Yeah." He watched her go back into the room, then made his way back toward the car.

They had enough. They finally had enough. He'd make the appointment, and as soon as the end of the week, he might remember talking to Danielle, giving her a nervous first kiss, making love to her for the first time...

It'd be double if I did that.

How many.

Sore spots.

You took it like a pro.

It didn't happen.

It didn't happen.

It didn't happen.

Brian drove home to wait for his wife, trying not to wonder what she'd forgotten.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Rachel Kolar is a graduate of Kenyon College whose work has appeared in
 Leading Edge, Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, Tales of the Talisman, and The Colored Lens. She, her husband, and their two children live in the Baltimore/Washington area. When not writing speculative fiction or changing diapers, she enjoys playing complicated board games, hiking, and getting far too excited about Halloween.

Custody Battle

By Arley Sorg

Connie French was a slight woman
. The glare coming through the large, frosted window behind her threatened to swallow her up. She sat in the worn wooden chair across from Jenson, arms folded across her chest and legs crossed.

Jenson rolled his neck to the left
. Pops and creaking. The spike of pain that shot into his shoulder gave him pause.
Too old for this bullshit
, he thought, frowning. Luck would run out on him eventually.

Connie had lines around her eyes
. Her black-dyed hair was cut into a severe, angled bob. Too much blush on her russet cheeks. In that, she reminded Jenson of his mother.

"Have you been married, Mr. Jenson?" she asked, tilting forward.

"Call me Sam," he said. "How many kids are we talking about?" He made a show of leaning back into his squeaking computer chair, then scratching through the tight curls of his close-cropped beard.

"Two.
" Her mouth tightened at the corners, neither smiling nor frowning but nearly both.

Jenson nodded
. "You sure it will come to this?  Cases usually settle in arbitration. Court fees alone...Your ex that desperate?"

"On a good day
, he's obstinate," she snapped. Her eyes fluttered, as if passing secrets in code. "He's
dangerous.
" One hand made a bony fist and slammed Jenson's desk. She yanked her arm back, turning her face downward. Voice lowered, she went on. "He won't let this go. Even though he
knows
I'm better for—"

"Enough, okay?
" Jenson raised both hands. "I don't get too involved with...people." He waved a hand. "Honestly, I don't care. Don't give me that look." Guilt made him drop his eyes. He lingered on her neck—she had a thick coat of base down to her collarbone.
Hiding...

Then he saw the bruise around her wrist.

She tugged her sleeve over the bruise and straightened.

He stared at his hands
. He had nothing to give to her. Softness and kindness were foreign languages. He only had his work. "You know what I do," he said, quieter than he'd meant to. "This is a paycheck. No offense." He looked up and waited for her to nod. "My sole job is to win." It was the best he could do.

"Okay," her blinks arrested into a steady, skeptical stare
. "Can you promise me you'll win?"

"Never any guarantees
. Partly, depends on who your ex hires—"

"Technically not 'ex' yet."

"—but I've got a good track record. Better than most. And I won't pull an Amendment Nine surrender just because things go wrong. I'm in to the end. Look..." Jenson rubbed his chin. "I'm sure you researched other gladiators. Most only charge half up front."

"Half is still a lot."

"It is. You pay me more so you can win." Jenson rolled his sleeves to his biceps, revealing the bulge of muscle. It often helped make the sale. He leaned his forearms onto the edge of the desk and flexed. "Don't want to lose your kids? Hire a fighter who can handle himself."

~

A month later, Jenson was sitting in the windowless Hotbox, waiting for the door to open.

Its design was too close for a gladiator of his height
. He sucked for air, inhaling the rank smell of ancient cedar and decades of sweat. Dizziness slipped along the edge of his consciousness. Sweat trickled down his back and soaked the cloth between skin and armor. Light cut between some of the slats of wood, showing dust twirling in the tight space.

Spectators already shouted from the curved stalls beyond
. Likely bets were placed. Jenson heard a few jeers. From inside, most voices blurred together. Both sides would have fans and detractors.

To the rhythm of his pulse, his life flooded his mind
. Empty apartment, scarred body. Alienated parents and an incomplete college degree. The loneliness of nights spent trying to sleep, staring at walls and wishing to be anywhere else.

He'd only ever been good at fighting.

The door trembled for a moment. In a dulled stretch of nerves, he bit his lip, as always, wondering whom his opponent would be.

Jenson forced doubts from his thoughts
. His off-hand cupped his eyes. He heard the door raise. Sunlight coated his skin. He kissed the cold, simple basket of his cutlass, came to his feet and stepped into the round, grassy Trial Courtyard, blinking behind his fingers. His heart thumped.

From his left, at the top of the amphitheater, came the hollow clap of the judge's gavel
. Jenson peered straight ahead, trying to resolve his opponent in the brightness.

Crouched on the field thirty yards from him was Constantine Shulman
.
The Shark
, Jenson thought with a grimace. Constantine was a professional, seasoned. He had sculpted steel pieces covering his joints and groin, and hardened black leather on most of his body. One cheek was torn by a pale scar, and his blond hair was pulled into a stubby braid.

The judge clapped his gavel again
. On Jenson's right, spectators in the elevated, tiered half-circle of seats fell silent. The presiding sheriff held up a bible and swore the gladiators in, while the stenographer at the front of the stalls recorded poses, postures and words for the record.

"Connie French," the judge spoke into his microphone
. The sound crackled but evened out. "Do you swear that this gladiator, Samuel Jenson, represents your interests in the matter of the custody of your two children?"

In her booth at the front of the stalls, next to her lawyer, Connie stood, taking a moment to straighten her maroon blouse
. She bent slightly and spoke into her microphone. Her brows pinched, and her eyes set on Jenson, dark sparks that promised retribution if he failed. "I do, your honor."

"Simon French," the judge went on, "Do you swear that this gladiator, Constantine Shulman, represents your interests in the matter of the custody of your children?"

Simon had close-set, blue eyes. With an impatient scowl, he nodded at his lawyer's whispers. When he stood, he was gangly and tall, in an oversized blue dress shirt and a black tie. He leaned on his fingers to speak through the microphone. His knuckles were pink, days into healing from tearing and bruises. "I do."

That's that
. No turning back.

Jenson exhaled sharp breaths, trying to work the quaking from his guts
. He'd seen the Shark fight. Seen him swing his long, curved blade and slice off limbs. Shulman didn't like to drag things out.

With one white-knuckled hand, Connie clutched the lacquered rail that ran the length of the stalls. Her other hand dabbed teary mascara streaks from her cheeks.

The judge uttered one word into his microphone: "Begin."

~

Jenson stumbled. He leaned against a stall's polished face. A few feet above his head, people craned over the railing to watch. Blood trailed from his ribs where the Shark had nicked him. Worse was the gash on his forehead, drizzling sticky wet down his face and obscuring his vision.

Constantine was on his knees in the middle of the grass patch
. Jenson had gouged the inside of his sword arm. Red dripped off the Shark's fingers, his hand hung like a dead thing. He'd switched to his off-hand and was still a passable fighter.

Anyone's game
, Jenson thought, swearing under his breath.

Plenty would give up,
cite Amendment Nine and throw the case away before it was too late. Jenson swiped his sight clear. He remembered Connie that first day, shrunken into herself but burning through her eyes. He knew what that was like, to be alone with the world crashing in.

Jenson pushed off the wooden wall and set his stance
. He made a hasty plan: feint right, spin left, exploit the Shark's weakness. Around them the crowd was riled, loud. The melee had gone long; they wanted a winner.

Constantine rose to his feet
. He swayed, his chest working harder than it should. Jenson crushed the urge to rush him. The Shark was too good—taking risks could be fatal. He was halfway across the Courtyard; Jenson chanced a glance at his client.

Connie's eyes were wide, hopeful
. She held a handkerchief over her mouth.

Jenson gave her a nod and a smirk, then turned back to his business
. He planted his left foot. Flexed into a short leap right. The Shark closed, bellowing and taking long strides. Jenson crouched, spun.

A voice sizzled through the speakers
. "Stop!"

Jenson stumbled to a halt, wrestling momentum
. Constantine slowed his pace, then fell onto his knees again, huffing at the ground.

"Wait!
" It was the ex, or soon to be ex, Simon. Only three people could stop the fight once it had begun: the judge and the two spouses. Catching his breath, Jenson glowered up at the Simon. For a heartbeat, he pictured the ex on his knees in the grass patch, one arm useless and ready for a killing blow.

The lawyer spoke into Simon's ear
. The husband's eyes shifted from judge to his wife. "I invoke Article Twenty-three," he said, lips quirking at the corners. "The Code of Exclusionary Transfer."

Jenson's head spun
.
That's new.
He braced for adjudication. He thought he'd heard all the little rules and tricks; surprises were never good in the Courtyard. In a word, the Shark could be on his feet again.

Connie's lawyer was wagging his finger, face turning red
. "This is an outrage! Mr. French is on losing ground and—"

"F
amily law has for decades maintained—" Simon's lawyer argued louder.

"S
ome mysterious, antiquated,
outdated
law," Connie's lawyer shot back, standing and raising his voice over his opponent.

Jenson eyed the Shark
. Constantine wasn't huffing anymore. His gaze was steady, his curved blade resting across his thighs.
Damn.

"Enough!" the judge shouted, banging his gavel
. "Everyone sit
down.
We will adjourn for fifteen minutes. I will look up this...
article
...and give my ruling momentarily."

Chatter sloshed through the stalls
. Constantine let out a sigh. "Think we're finishing this?"

Jenson shook his head
. "Not if we don't have to." He squinted up at the husband. Simon was grinning and talking to his counsel, boys sharing a joke. Something about it made Jenson's stomach churn. "We might both walk away today."

~

Connie's hands shook so hard she dropped Jenson's sword. It clattered on the tiles of the sequester room and she jolted at the sound.

"It's okay, Connie," Jenson picked up the blade
. "You can do this."

"Simon planned this from the start
. He's obsessive," she said, voice strained. "This can't be real." She stared at the offered hilt as if it might poison her.

Jenson held his breath and looked at the tables and chairs they'd pushed against the wall
. He spoke after a moment, unable to meet her eyes. "You can always concede. This...article allows for that."

Connie's voice broke
. "You don't know what he'll do!"

Jenson brought his eyes to her neck, to the make-up covering her skin
. "I get it," he whispered."

"You
don't
," she moaned. She turned, took three steps to the stacked chairs and gave them a hard kick. "He's volatile!  Unpredictable!"

"That's why you're leaving him, right?
"
Don't do this. Don't get involved.

Connie gripped her hair with both hands
. She heaved at the air, until a sob broke through her resolve.

Jenson's legs felt like rubber
.
Damn it.
"Look." He came up behind her, hovering his hand over her shoulder, unsure if he should touch her. He ached to give her
something.
"Just...walk. Let him take the kids. Get on with your life."

"My life?" Connie turned around
. Her hair was a mess, her make-up was smeared. "This has never been about my life!" Her eyes flashed and she made fists.

Connie French closed her eyes
. She drew in a long breath. And when she blew it back out, her sobbing stopped. "Whatever he's done to me," she said, lips curling in disgust, "he'll do worse to them."

"He's just..."
this is madness. This is stupid.
Jenson grasped for anything to calm her down. "He's just trying to scare you. Walk away...Appeal!"

Connie pressed her lips together and pried the sword from Jenson's fingers
. "Do your job," she said and gave him a nod. "Show me how to use this thing."

~

They were given two days to train in the sequester rooms, chambers normally reserved for juries to discuss cases and cast votes. At night, they were put up in a cheap hotel. Both nights Jenson heard a knock on his client's room next door. He heard Simon's lawyer offering her the chance to back down, to give up the kids.